Hide and seek
by Moneypenny
Summary: Does Wilson's lost brother want to be found? Note This was originally a challenge on LJ pick a book, take the first full sentence from pages 10, 20 etc until you have 10 sentences, then write drabblesstory. UPDATED chapters 2 and 3 now added.
1. Chapter 1

**There were so many ways of making people do what you wanted other than killing them.**

He's been volunteering at the Salvation Army shelter for three years now. Experience gained from working in the local hospital emergency room is useful here; he can help the people that don't make it that far, the ones who think they won't be welcome.

The temperature outside has slipped below freezing so business is brisk tonight. A quick glance around reveals a few of his regular customers and he heads for one of them first.

"David!"

"Marco." The man welcomes him with a weak handclasp, before sinking back down in his chair.

Going into medical-mode he begins checking David over. Funds are tight and he's only supposed to treat minor injuries. Anything else is referred to the local hospital - assuming the patient will go.

David's always covered in bruises but that's not unusual here. There's a hierarchy on the street and it's enforced with fists and boots. Tonight his injuries are particularly bad though and he can see blood underneath the dirt and whiskers.

Frowning, he checks for other injuries. "I think maybe you should…" he starts but is stopped with a vehement 'No!"

"I'm fine, Doc. I cleaned it all up," David says, pointing at his chest. "Just give me something for the pain."

Further investigation reveals that underneath his shirt and jacket, David's chest is bound neatly with old rags. Buttoning everything up, trying not to notice the thinness of the body beneath, he raises his eyebrows in question.

Struggling to sit up straight, David answers with a groan. "My brother was training to be a doctor. Is a doctor," he corrects after a pause. "Used to practice on me during vacation time."

People here don't have histories, he reminds himself. But this time it's a rule he's tempted to break. "A doctor, huh?" Maybe I know him?"

David scowls at him, pulling away. Two steps later he hisses with pain, one hand protectively covering his ribs as he doubles over. "Jesus…"

He grabs out to support him. "It's okay, I've got you," he murmurs, lowering him to the floor.

"His name is Wilson. James Wilson," David whispers as he closes his eyes.

**This was the house that had been Nicholas's first home.**

"Wilson! Beer!"

Pretending to glower he levers himself out of the couch and heads for the kitchen. House is in good spirits tonight and his mood is infectious. They've been winding up each other up all evening, both of them delivering their barbs with accuracy and ease.

Safe in the kitchen, away from the perceptive gaze, he allows himself a small smile. House is playing a waltz on the piano, an unusually up-tempo piece for him. Tapping his fingers on the worktop in time to the melody, in breathes a sigh of relief. It's been another very long week but at last it's Friday evening.

Returning with the beers he claims his place on the couch. Legs stretched out, absently picking at the label on the beer bottle, he feels the tension oozing out of his body. The promise of Friday night with House is what gets him out of bed on a Monday morning. It's like the light at the end of a long dark tunnel.

He doesn't know how he'd survive without Friday nights.

The sound of the phone ringing breaks into his thoughts. He doesn't move, even though he can feel the scowl that's being directed at him.

"Phone," House barks, not missing a beat.

"Your phone," he throws back, taking a gulp of beer.

"It's my couch too but it hasn't stopped you sitting on it all evening."

Conceding with a grin, he heads for the phone. Grabbing the handset he adopts his best English butler voice. "The House residence."

There's a pause at the other end before a voice asks hesitantly, "Is Doctor Wilson there?"

Several replies rush through his head, none of them polite. Friday nights are sacred; his staff knows that. Which is why the call must be important, he logically points out to himself.

Sighing, he confirms who he is. Abruptly the music stops, just in time for him to hear the caller introduce himself.

"My name is Marco De Silva, Dr Wilson. You don't know me but Dr Cuddy thought it would be okay for me to call…"

**The remains of stone stalls under the promenades revealed there had once been a great market here, but the area had long since given way to coffee houses, mazes of small alleys and decaying buildings.**

"There's no point in running, David. You know that, right?"

The three men are looming over him. It's an illusion, their height, but he knows better than to makes jokes about their size. Instead he lets them deliver a few more well-placed kicks and then lies still. Laughing, they walk off.

Cold seeps through his clothes from the concrete floor. Shivering he rolls over on his side, coughing as he catches his ribs. They'd strapped them up at the hospital but bandages are no protection against boots.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the pain he staggers to the feet. A few shallow breaths do nothing to slow his pounding heart but he forces one foot in front of the other. It's another freezing cold night and standing still will be the death of him, although he's not sure if that's a bad thing or not.

He's not the only vagrant hiding in this warehouse and there's several small fires pitched around the edge. He staggers towards one then lowers himself to the floor, careful not to get too close. His disagreement with his 'friends' won't have gone un-noticed and his friends aren't the type of people that anyone here wants to mess around with.

He's still got some painkillers in his pocket but he dare not take them out. Pills are currency and he's in enough trouble as it is. Instead he curls up on the pile of boxes he calls home and tries to get some sleep.

Not that he sleeps much, hasn't done for years. Apart from yesterday, he thinks, remembering the hospital emergency room with its blankets and warmth. Too far-gone to care he'd let Marco take him to the hospital. Frightened that he was dying he'd told Marco things he'd promised he'd never say aloud again.

Big mistake, he reminds himself, shifting painfully against the hard floor. Seeing him like this would kill his mother. And the hospital had only been a temporary escape; they'd been waiting for him at the exit.

Not that it matters. For all he knows James could still be in New Jersey but that might as well be the other side of the universe.

**The dingy corridors on the ground floor were far more crowded and it was almost impassable near the public area.**

"Have you seen the weather out there? We're taking the Volvo, not the Vette."

He waits for Wilson to finish his tirade then limps to the closet to retrieve their coats. Behind him he can hear the other man breathing hard. The phone call has left him shaken.

He drives. Wilson isn't really functioning and he's silent during the journey to the shelter. There're no complaints about his rusty gear changes or his yelling when the lights turn red at every junction. A quick glance to his right and Wilson is staring fixedly through the windscreen, the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his fists the only sign of movement.

By the time they get to the shelter the tension in the car is palpable. The cynic inside him thinks maybe this is someone's idea of a sick joke and as he follows Wilson into the reception area, he's already thinking of ways of making the bastards pay if that's the case.

For a second he considers telling Wilson about his theory but the look of hope in his friend's brown eyes makes him swallow his words. There's not going to be any soft landings on this one. He tightens his grip on his cane and keeps walking.

The reception area is dingy with a few plastic chairs and badly stained tables. Raised voices can be heard in the building but the reception is eerily quiet. Lowering himself down gently into a chair, cursing the cold weather outside, he mulls over the telephone call Wilson received, analyzing it from every angle.

"How many people have you told about David," he asks eventually, unable to sit silent any longer.

Wilson shrugs, his attention fixed firmly on the floor. "You. Cuddy."

"Really?" He can't hide his surprise.

Wilson sighs and looks over his shoulder at him. "What? You don't believe me?"

His tongue goes into overdrive even as his brain is telling him to stop. "Don't tell me you haven't tried it out on one of the nurses. Long lost brother. Broken heart…" He trails off as Wilson glares at him. The easy banter they'd shared earlier in the evening is a distant memory. Silence is probably the way to go.

Eventually a young man appears and heads towards them. He watches Wilson automatically slip into caring mode, a smile on his face, his hand outstretched in welcome. Hanging back he takes the opportunity to study the new arrival.

His name badge says 'Dr Marco'. A doctor of what he's not sure but he's got his bedside manner down to perfection. Wilson is lapping it up. He scowls, not falling for the act for a second. There's a catch, he's sure of it.

"He's gone?"

He steps up beside Wilson, the note of disbelief in his friend's voice jerking him into action. "That's assuming he was ever here of course."

Marco blinks in surprise. "Of course…" he stutters, looking at each of them in turn. "You think I'm lying?"

"No, he doesn't."

The glare Wilson's giving him could burn through flesh but his tongue is fueled by anger and he pushes on. "Do you get off on this, screwing with family members?" He gestures towards Wilson who's shaking his head and pacing in circles. "He's been looking for his brother for years. I bet he's been in here lots of times-"

"I've never seen him before!" Agitated, Marco throws his arms in the air then takes a deep breath and starts again. "David had bandaged up his chest, said his brother used to practice on him during vacation time."

Wilson stops pacing. Slowly he sinks down into a chair and rests his head in his hands. Okay then. Maybe David has been here.

Sinking down in the chair beside him he asks the questions that he knows his friend is incapable of voicing right now. "Why did he need the bandages?"

Marco shakes his head, waving him to silence as he opens his mouth to protest. "It's confidential."

"But-"

"House."

Wilson's reprimand is barely more than a whisper but he takes the hint. "When did you see him last?"

Marco hesitates for a heartbeat. "At the hospital."

Beside him he feels Wilson tense. If he was the touching type he'd put a hand out to reassure him but he's not so he fixes his attention on Marco instead, looking for answers. Marco, he discovers, is a quick learner. Not waiting for the obvious next question the younger man is already holding up his hands defensively.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could but I can't."

"That's okay. I think we can fill in the gaps."

It's not okay he thinks, his grip on the cane tightening in reaction to Wilson's voice. He wants details, he wants a solution. But Wilson is getting up from his chair and thanking Marco, apparently ready to leave.

Reluctantly he follows. The path outside is icy and they walk silently side by side as he navigates it. It's not until they're back in the car and heading for his apartment that Wilson speaks again.

"At least I know he's alive. And he's here somewhere in Princeton."

**Finally he had searched as much of the place as he was able to without a ladder and he went to sit in the concealing shadow of an oversized urn.**

The nails securing the shutters are shiny and fixed firmly in the wood. That's good because it probably means he's the first one here. It's bad because it takes all his energy to lever the shutter open and he doesn't have any energy to spare.

There's a crack as the shutter comes away and he freezes. This is a nice neighborhood. Any second now he expects shouting voices and threats about the cops. A night inside a cell might not be a bad thing but he knows his three friends won't agree.

Panic fuels his movements, enabling him to open the window and drag his body through in quick succession. Pulling the shutter closed he listens, waiting for the thud of boots and their familiar voices.

There's nothing except the cold, dark enveloping silence punctuated by his wheezing breaths. Rolling over he crawls onto his knees. As abandoned houses go, this one is quite luxurious. There's carpet on the floor, warm after the warehouse's concrete floor. But he doesn't have time to admire it.

Staggering to his feet he checks out the ground floor. It's pitch black and he keeps tripping, each time jarring his ribs. The staircase to the next floor looms like Mount Everest so he ignores it, deciding to take his chances.

He couldn't escape even if someone was already in here. Breathing in is painful and running a thing of the past. Pneumonia had been mentioned at the hospital but he ignored their offers of help. Getting away had been so much more important.

There's a broken packing case in one corner and he slumps down next to it. Sitting upright usually eases his breathing but tonight he's too tired. Gradually he gives up the fight and his body slides towards to the floor.

**The man was young, dressed in a naval officer's uniform.**

"His name is David. This picture was taken a while ago -"

The man he's talking to shakes his head and shuffles away. With a sigh he mutters his thanks, rubbing his hands together vigorously against the bitter cold. They've been searching for hours and he's beginning to remember why he'd stopped doing this. Usually the loss of his brother feels like a dull ache. Tonight the loss is raw, like a recent bereavement, as he sees his brother in every one of these scruffy faces.

David could be here though, he reminds himself. And it's enough to keep him going.

Doggedly he carries on showing the picture around, walking from fire to fire and maintaining a smile. Occasionally the picture results in laughter - it's a college graduation portrait, complete with mortarboard, acne and a cheeky grin – but mostly the reaction is hostility or fear. He's made photocopies and left some behind but already he's seen several trampled underfoot.

The picture probably isn't helping; he knows that. The young man smiling up at him looks nothing like the brother he lost. Calling his mother for another picture isn't an option though. And he's not even sure she kept some of the later shots.

Hitching his coat collar up against the cold he heads back to the car. It's parked underneath a streetlight and he can see House in the driver's seat. He'd insisted on coming – 'Someone has to keep an eye on your wheels' – but he'd stayed in the car, with the heater turned on full.

They're both working tomorrow and he knows he should call it a night. Marco's supplied him with a list of places where David might be but there're more than a dozen addresses on it, places he's never heard of before. Three is all they've managed tonight. This search could take days.

House lowers the window as he approaches. He leans in to talk to him, tiredness threading through his voice. "Let's go home." He's forced to step backwards as House swings the door open, unfolding himself from the car.

"Give."

What?" It takes him a second to realize his friend is gesturing at the photocopies, now crumpled in his hand. "What are you…" he stutters but he's talking to House's back. Limping heavily, House is heading back the way he's just come, brandishing the sheaf of paper like a lethal weapon. "House. I don't think this is a good idea."

House keeps going, throwing him an evil look over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Mom. I promise to play nice with the other kids."

Groaning, he shakes his head and then heads back too. Two pairs of legs are better than one but he can't help feeling uneasy and as he starts talking to people again, he keeps a wary eye on his friend.

He's soon absorbed back into the routine again – until he catches a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. The men around House are slowing standing. Voices are being raised. Issuing a rapid 'thank you' he hurries towards the crowd and then stops, his jaw dropping in surprise.

House has casually reached inside his coat pocket and, like a magician with a rabbit in a hat, has produced a packet of cigarettes. There are murmurs of surprise then laughter as he dips in again for a lighter, flicking it on and offering it around. Lighting one for himself he leans on his cane and laughs. With his dark hat and whiskers House blends into the shadows along with the other men standing around the fire.

Breathing a sigh of relief he wavers between running to the rescue and carrying on his own search. Instead he heads back to the car, leaning on the hood. Eventually House comes back towards him, his limp more pronounced.

"We're going." House pushes him towards the passenger side and opens the driver's door.

There's a note of urgency that's impossible to ignore. Questions are rushing through his mind but he holds them until they're driving down the road. "What's happened?" Beside him his friend is concentrating on driving but there's a muscle twitching in his jaw. "House?"

"David was there."

He swings from fear to elation in a second. "That's gre-"

"No it's not. Someone else has been looking for him. Three men. And we're not talking about his poker buddies."

His brain takes a second a catch on. "Shit. That's how he injured his ribs?" Ugly images flash across his mind and he closes his eyes. Not knowing had been a lot easier.

The sound of House calling his name jerks him from his personal nightmare. Looking around he realizes they've stopped outside a 24-7 store. "What..?"

Tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, House is watching him intently, a frown on his face. "Give me Marco's list. I'm going to need something to read while you're in there getting cigarettes and coffee."

**The windows on the upper floors were apparently lightless behind their heavy shutters and the house had a deserted look.**

"Have I told you what a dumb idea this is, Marco?"

"Several times," he replies, his breath misting in the crisp air. "Loudly."

For a moment he regrets telling Richard about his plans this evening. Searching alone might be easier; his face is familiar amongst Princeton's homeless community. But as he points his torch in Richard's direction, picking out his friend's bulky silhouette, he's also reminded that his fellow doctor practices karate in his spare time. Tonight he might be a good person to know.

"You let them get under your skin."

"I know."

"This is probably just a wild goose chase."

He nods his head and keeps on going. The shape of a house looms out of the darkness in front of them, the half-moon throwing thin shadows across the path. It's not one of the normal hangouts he checks during situations like these but he's got a tip-off and he's desperate enough to check anywhere.

"I could be sitting at home watching American Chopper," Richard reminds him as they spread out, checking the ground in front of them for recent footprints.

"You'll catch the re-runs," he throws back. Coming to a halt, he scans the front of the house with his torch.

"Looks pretty secure to me." Richard is echoing his thoughts.

"Damn."

His sigh is echoed to his left. "Maybe he doesn't want to be found. Maybe that's why he ran."

He shakes his head. "I don't think so. I have a feeling about this." Waving with his torch he carries on walking. "Let's check round the back."

Fighting their way through the overgrown garden they split up, taking one side of the house each. His heart sinks as the torchlight reveals more intact shutters. Suddenly a high-pitched whistle pierces the silence.

Following the light from his friend's torch he finds Richard closely examining one of the shutters. It's obviously been forced from the outside.

"Bingo."

**They found Cusard waiting up the street and climbed aboard the wagon.**

He's suffering from a feeling of deja vu.

Last time Wilson received a call from Marco he'd ended up driving. Again, he only knows the barest details of the conversation but the tension in Wilson's pose is telling him the rest.

The address that Marco's directed them to isn't one of the addresses on his list. Homeless people aren't welcome in this area and it only adds to the questions he has. Asking Wilson would be a waste of time though so he concentrates on driving instead.

Through the gloom he sees a figure on the sidewalk, waving. As it materializes into Marco he pulls up, leaving the engine running as the younger man climbs in. Beside him Wilson stirs, looking back over his shoulder. In the rear-view mirror he sees Marco wave his friend to silence and they exchange worried looks.

His sense of foreboding grows as they pull up outside the house that Marco has directed them to. Wilson is out of the car first, shifting restlessly, desperate to be gone. Marco throws him a torch then raps out a precise set of instructions. By the time he's levered himself out of the car Wilson's gone, the light from his torch fading into the distance.

"Tell me," he commands as Marco drops into step beside him.

"Pneumonia," Marco tells him with a regretful shrug. "Possibly hypothermia. Difficult to tell in there. We've got an ambulance on the way."

He nods, saving his energy for walking. No amount of Vicodin can stave off the cold and his muscles are protesting. Biting his lip he walks faster. Wilson will be in there by now and he needs to know what's happening.

Discovering there's a window to negotiate he feels like yelling with frustration. Help from strangers isn't usually something he accepts gracefully but Marco is silent as he offers his arm, giving him the extra leverage he needs. Hitting the floor on the other side of the window doesn't agree with his leg but he sucks in a sharp breath and keeps on going.

Torchlight suddenly blinds him and he blinks, letting his eyes grow accustomed. Gradually he can pick things out around him. There's a man kneeling beside a pile of blankets and coats, his name badge pronouncing that he works in the Princeton General Emergency Room. Beside him stands Wilson, rooted to the spot.

Tentatively testing his leg he takes a step forward. Beside him he can feel Wilson shivering and he doubts it's from the cold. Leaning on his good leg he gives his friend a nudge with his cane. Like a man in a trance Wilson kneels down and reaches out, curling his fingers around the edge of the blankets and carefully pulling them back.

"David?"

**It also wasn't true, or perhaps Arsilde was being polite.**

"David?"

The last thing he can clearly remember is the derelict house and the roughness of the packing case, digging in his back. The carpet was soft but not this soft. But he can remember that voice.

Opening his eyes is an effort but he manages it with a groan. Bright light brings pain and he closes them again. Taking a deep breath, he makes another effort.

Deep brown eyes swim into his vision. Women had always fallen for those eyes, even when his brother was just a kid. He'd been jealous back then; he still feels jealous now. The last ten years have been good to his brother; he's filled out, looks more comfortable in his skin.

Unlike him.

"You're awake."

Swallowing hard, he tests moving his head and regrets it. There's an oxygen mask over his face so talking is going to be difficult. Luckily Jimmy seems happy to fill in the gaps.

"You're in the hospital. We'll talk later. You're safe. Everything's going to be fine."

No they're not, he feels like saying but closes his eyes instead. Jimmy's always been an optimist. It's one of his brother's less attractive traits.

**The tunnel widened and opened into a ledge, a few feet above a stream of putrid water flowing through a round, brick lined sewer.**

"Go to bed, Wilson."

With a jerk he comes awake. Blinking sleep from his eyes, it takes him a second for him to register his surroundings; House's apartment and he's sleeping in his friend's recliner chair. Automatically he looks over at the couch, checking David's still sleeping there, hidden under a pile of blankets. Letting out a breath he allows himself to relax.

House is standing next to the recliner, watching him closely. A quick glance at his watch tells him it's 3am and he groans, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. Sleep in a bed is tempting but tonight, as he has every other night, he declines the offer with a shake of his head. House shrugs then seats himself at the piano, gently running his fingers across the keys. He watches him for a moment then slides back down into the recliner, letting the music wash over him.

He and David have been staying at House's apartment since his brother was discharged from the hospital. That morning House had cruised up to the entrance in his Volvo and insisted on taking them home – to his home as it had turned out. Apparently, according to House, his own apartment is less welcoming than David's usual derelict hangouts. 'Contemporary' had been the description on the letting agent's details but he can see why there might be some confusion.

On the couch David shifts, a low moan escaping his lips. His brother never sleeps easily although that's gradually beginning to change. The nights when he wakes up screaming are becoming rarer occurrences but he always wakes up with a haunted look in his eyes.

The brother in the graduation picture, with the cheeky grin and acne, is a distant memory. This brother is wary, suspicious of all offers of help. He hates being worried over and it's the one thing they keeping falling out about. House has supplied the balance, using his caustic humor to stop petty arguments turning into explosive rows. Occasionally when he's woken up in the early hours of the morning he's found House and his brother having quiet conversations, stopping when they realize he's awake. Part of him feels jealous that House seems to have made a connection with his brother when he feels like he's flailing about in the dark. A larger part is grateful for the return of life in David's eyes.

His only regret is that they've haven't told their parents yet. David was adamant and House had agreed. He'd sulked about it for days, guilt making it impossible for him to see their side of their argument. Gradually, with House's insistent prodding, he began to comprehend; David's struggling to understand his new life, an audience is the last thing he needs. Their mother would suffocate him; it's from her he inherited his caring gene.

The music stops and he realizes House is watching him again. Shaking his head he forces a smile on his lips. Reaching out, he rests his hand on top of David's blankets. There is light at the end of the tunnel he reminds himself, as the music starts again. He's just got to be patient and learn to sit back and wait. Eventually his brother will come home again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hide and seek – part two**

"Hey Lisa, great party!"

Smiling, she offers her cheek for a kiss. "Donald! Lovely to see you." He kisses her with enthusiasm, leaving a damp lip mark behind. He's one of the hospital's keener fund-raisers so she waits until he's disappeared back into the crowd before wiping at her cheek with a tissue.

The annual spring fund-raiser is one of the more popular events on the hospital's calendar. This year one of their ex-patients has loaned them the use of a local hotel ballroom. The surroundings are luxurious and people have dressed accordingly. Tux and evening dresses are the outfits of choice and often she does a double take; it's rare she sees her staff out of scrubs and white coats. .

Methodically she works the crowd, picking out the sponsors and fund-raisers who she knows will be expecting to see her. Glancing around she can see her department heads doing the same thing; they're a well-oiled fund-raising machine. To her left Wilson is talking to Geraldine Buckley, local businesswoman and formidable battle-axe. He's leaning in, making eye contact and even from this distance she can sense the charm oozing from every pore. Geraldine's a tough act but her lips are twitching and finally there's a smile.

Resisting the urge to cheer she catches Wilson's eye instead and winks. There's a surprised blink in reply and then his attention is back on Geraldine. Grinning, she turns her attention back to the rest of guests.

Heading to the bar a while later, she spots a man who is strangely familiar but who she can't quite place. Tall, lanky and wearing a tux that is several sizes too big for him, he's standing in one corner, with his back to the wall. It's his thick dark eyebrows that provide the final piece of the puzzle and smiling she wanders over.

"You must be David?" He stares back at her, his expression blank and for a second she thinks she's made a mistake. Then he smiles and the family resemblance is there again, although a pale imitation of the Wilson she knows.

"You must be Lisa."

"Ah."

"Jimm-." He stutters then corrects himself. "James has told me all about you. House said-"

Grimacing, she laughs. "Don't tell me. I don't think I want to know."

"Probably not."

They stand in silence and for the first time that evening she struggles for something to say. She's had brief conversations with Wilson during the two months since his brother reappeared but he's always seemed pre-occupied. They've never had a proper conversation about what's happened and now it seems like David isn't ready to share either. Not surprising, she realizes; it's not the kind of thing she'd share with a total stranger either.

The trouble is she can't shake the thought that he isn't a stranger, at least not at first glance. Up close she can see the facial bone structure and brown eyes that must be a Wilson family trait. David is handsome, eye-catching, despite his skin being weathered after years living on the streets. His eyes are wary though, darting around the room. And unlike his younger brother he doesn't ooze confidence and comfort; at the moment he's having exactly the opposite effect on her.

"Don't like parties?" she offers finally, nervousness making her speak.

"Nope. Just don't like people," he deadpans back, taking a swig of the fruit juice that he's clutching.

She smiles. It's a House-type comment and she's used to those. A sideways glance at his face though and the witty comeback dies on her lips. There's no sparkle in his eyes, just a flint-hard blankness that sends a shiver down her spine.

* * *

Taking a deep breath he pushes his way through the crowd, heading for the reception area. Sweat's trickling down inside his collar and he tugs at it impatiently, grunting with satisfaction as the bowtie flies undone. He'd told Jimmy this was a bad idea but his brother had insisted anyway and now he feels like a lab rat and all he wants to do is get out, away from all these searching eyes.

They are nice people; his brother's friends always were. But hanging around with people involves smiling and lies and questions he doesn't want to think about. And he really wants a drink or a cigarette at least.

Feeling inside his jacket pocket his hand closes around a hipflask and a battered packet of cigarettes. He pulls out the latter and lights up as soon as he reaches the exit. His brother's apartment is spotless and sneaking a cigarette there makes him feel like a teenager again; sometimes he can even imagine his father's disapproving voice. Taking a long drag he enjoys the moment, exhaling through his nose and watching the smoke drift lazily through the air.

"Playing hooky?"

Surprised he inhales, triggering a bout of coughing. Behind him he can hear laughter. Turning around he finds House sitting on a couch, a cigar dangling from his fingers. He gestures at the empty seat beside him, sitting down when House nods his consent.

"Don't like parties," he offers, taking another drag on his cigarette. "You?"

House taps his leg with his cane. "Forgot my dancing shoes."

They sit in silence. House intrigues him; he's not like the friends Jimmy used to have. His sense of humor is caustic, frequently verging on the edge of mean. He doesn't seek approval or conform and rarely bothers to help others out. He's everything, in fact, that his brother is not. He likes that. But it confuses him and after two months he still feels like he's no closer to figuring it out.

It's also too much effort so instead he leans back and relaxes. From their spot in the reception they can still see the party and he sniggers as a familiar head of brown hair slowly bobs its way through the crowd.

"He's always been good at this," he explains when House quirks an eyebrow upwards. "Parties. Fund-raisers. Arranging things. Arranging people," he elaborates, inhaling deeply. "They just eat out of his hand."

House shrugs. "Useful skills for a Head of Department." He smiles wickedly. "So they tell me."

It's that trait he likes, he decides, that sense of irreverence. Jimmy's never had it: he's always trying too hard to please. Maybe, he thinks, his brother's actually learnt something during the time he's been away. Then he remembers the lecture he'd received earlier that evening about the perils of too much alcohol and he changes his mind.

The hipflask is still in his pocket, sandwiched between the couch and his side. The thought alone is enough to make his lips dry and reflexively he licks them. The sight of his brother appearing out of the crowd, carrying a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, is like a mirage in the desert. He blinks in surprise.

"Thought I'd find you two out here."

Jimmy perches on the arm of the couch, next to House and fills the glasses. It's strange having his brother hand him a glass of whiskey when he's still smarting from the lecture he'd received earlier on and he pulls a face. "If you don't want it…" Jimmy threatens and he grabs it before his brother can change his mind. Downing it all he smiles at the warm glow that's spreading to his toes.

He watches as his brother and House clink their glasses together in a silent toast. He's noticed this too, the way they either verbally bounce off each other or sit in silence – there doesn't seem to be any middle ground. The silence makes him feel excluded though and that confuses him too.

Staring morosely into his empty glass it takes him a second to realize they're not alone. Lisa Cuddy is walking towards them, her hair bouncing in time with her determined stride.

"You're so busted," House announces gleefully, nudging his brother in the ribs.

Lifting his hands up, Jimmy announces his surrender. He always gives in too easily. "Don't tell me. Geraldine, right?" Lisa nods in sympathy as he gets up with a groan.

House smirks and nudges him with his cane. "Up and at them, champ. Just think of all the little cancer kids. And try not to focus on her false eye."

"She hasn't got one," his brother shoots back then stops, turning slowly. "Has she?"

"House!"

Lisa's tone is scandalized and the two men are laughing. House continues throwing insults as the other two head back to the party. It's not until they've disappeared into the crowd that he notices Jimmy has taken the whiskey bottle with him.

Hunting around in his pocket he finds another cigarette. Some things haven't changed at all, he decides. It's going to be a long night.

* * *

The drive from his apartment to his parents takes just over two hours. It's a journey he doesn't do often enough, as his mother often reminds him, but its one he usually looks forward to, when his schedule allows.

Today he's got butterflies in his stomach and the urge to turn back is overwhelming. Beside him David is sitting silently, his expression unreadable. It's taken them two months and the cancellation of three previously planned trips to get to this point. He'd always imagined he'd be excited if this day came. Now he's just trying not to be sick.

As they turn off the freeway and cover the last few miles, he forces himself to relax a little and enjoy the familiar scenery as they pull into town. As a child he'd found the place boring; as an adult he appreciates its peace and quiet. It'd had a lively center at one time, before all the younger people left. Now it's still busy although the buildings are dilapidated around the edges.

"This place is still a dump." David is still staring out of the window, his arms crossed, lips pursed together.

Stung, his first reaction is to jump to the town's defense. That's irrational, he reminds himself. He never used to like the place either; it's one of the reasons he chose McGill over somewhere closer. Biting back a sigh he carries on driving.

Clenching the steering wheel harder he turns into his parent's street. Beside him David shifts in his seat, nervously running his hand over his face. He'd called ahead to ask them to keep everything low key but his mother had sounded so excited. His worse fears are confirmed as he spots bunches of balloons tied to the porch.

Pulling into the driveway, he turns off the engine and they sit looking nervously at the house. This is ridiculous he tells himself sternly and presses twice on the horn. Ignoring David's glare he climbs out of the car and waits.

His mother and father appear, shortly followed by their younger brother Peter. Mentally sighing, he pulls together a smile. Low key for him had not meant including Peter. It's selfish, he knows, but this trip is already turning out to be hard enough.

Everyone is frozen in their places, like actors waiting for their leading man to appear. Realizing who is missing he leans down and taps on the window. David stares back at him, eyes wide with fear. He smiles back sympathetically, silently praying that his brother's not going to make him come up with some excuse for why he doesn't want to go in.

His mother solves the problem. Running down the drive she opens the passenger door, leaving his brother with no option. He watches as David's pulled into a hug and his mother repeatedly whispers his name. Pulling back she traces the weathered lines of his face, as if she can't believe it's him. Swallowing hard, he looks away. The moment he found David - the split second when he'd realized it really was him after years of fearing the worst - is still vivid in his mind.

Slowly he walks up the drive. His father steps down to meet him and to his surprise he hugs him. It's brief but when he pulls away the tears in his father's eyes mirror his own. It's not the wild, elated homecoming for David that he's always imagined, just a deep-seated feeling of relief. It's the first time in two months that he's allowed himself to feel it.

The whole thing is repeated again when David appears. Ignoring the stiff set of his brother's shoulders as their father envelops him in a hug, he concentrates instead on the happiness in his mother's eyes. She looks years younger and when she stands on tiptoe to whisper 'Thank you, sweetheart,' in his ear, he feels like a teenager again, basking in the warmth of her approval.

He tries to hold onto that feeling as they stumble awkwardly through dinner. Normally they banter easily. Today there's a list of questions no one dare ask so they're jumping from safe subject to safe subject like frogs crossing a lily pond. Peter's wife and family – two children, white picket fence and a dog – feature heavily in the conversation. It's not a subject he feels particularly comfortable with and looking at David's face he knows he's not the only one. Occasionally he throws in subjects of his own; House, the hospital, whatever TV shows he's caught in the brief moments he's had free at home. But David's only replying in monosyllables and it's not helping the feeling of unease.

It's his father who breaks the uneasy truce, right after they finish desert. "So, David, why didn't you call?" he asks casually as if having a son reappear after ten years is a regular occurrence.

Beside him he feels David tense and glancing down, he sees he's screwed up his napkin into a tiny little ball. Across the table his mother looks panicked. Peter just looks amused.

"That was delicious," he says into the silence, indicating his empty plate. "Is there any coffee?"

Nodding, his mother struggles to her feet but his father speaks first. "David?" She shakes her head at him but he puts his hand up, signaling for silence. "Well? Are you going to tell us?"

David carefully puts his napkin on the table and pushes his chair back. "I'm going for a cigarette."

He knows where to find him. But he still feels a surge of panic as he heads for the back porch. David's never sneaked anywhere in his life, he reminds himself. He always goes out with a bang. Nevertheless he breathes a sigh of relief as he opens the porch door and David's sitting there, lighting a cigarette. His brother snorts as he sits down beside him and he allows himself a small grin in reply. This is familiar territory.

"Stubborn jerk." The words are out before he can stop them. In the past they would have earned him a cheeky smile or a caustic comeback. Now all he gets is a twisted grimace.

"Nothing's changed," his brother offers eventually, exhaling slowly. "It's still you and Peter with me as the odd one out."

"That's not-"

"True? Yes it is." He chokes back a bitter laugh. "They didn't even ask how I was."

"You're safe. That's all that matters."

"Is it?"

David's studying him and he lifts his chin, meeting his gaze. He still feels like he's in limbo, struggling to reconcile this stranger with the image of his brother that he's kept with him during the last ten years. But knowing he's safe is paramount. It always has been. He doubts that David believes him.

"Always thought it'd be you with the wife and kids, not Peter."

He blinks, his mind struggling to switch subjects. With difficulty he musters a smile. "I've tried."

David frowns then nods back towards the house and the people inside. "Bet that sucks. Mom rattling on about her grandchildren."

"We don't talk about it." He shrugs.

There's another snort of laughter as his brother stubs out his cigarette. "Like I said, nothing's changed."

"Yes it has." The words have slipped out again but it's been ten years and he needs something to help him put the pieces back together. He leans forward, using his hands to emphasize his point. "One phone call. That's it all it would have taken. We didn't even know if –"

"So I'm a stubborn jerk, alright?" David's on his feet and walking away from him. "Feel better now?"

No, he feels like shouting but he slowly gets to his feet anyway. This brother he does remember. Arguing will be a waste of time.

* * *

When he first moved into Jimmy's apartment he'd spent most of his time asleep. Rest and regular meals have solved that problem; now he spends most of his time watching TV. Occasionally he wanders to the kitchen to search the refrigerator for lunch. But mostly he just sits.

It's driving him mad.

There was a time not so long ago he'd given his right leg for a warm bed and a hot meal. Now, as he stares out of the window and watches people walk by, all he can think about is how much he wants to escape.

Scanning the room, he shakes his head. It's not surprising his brother's rarely here. With its beige walls and lack of personal decoration it's more like a hotel room than an apartment. Given a choice he'd spend all his time working. But of course he doesn't have a job.

The local newspaper is lying on the coffee table. The list of companies who are hiring is on page four. He knows this because every week the newspaper appears like magic with that page slightly pulled out at the top. He's read through it but it's useless. Nobody's going to hire someone like him.

Sighing, he does another circuit of the room then attacks the TV remote control again. He knows all the schedules off by heart. Building houses, cooking pies, childcare and gardening: he's now an expert in it all. He's been avoiding Oprah and Dr Phil – the guests on there don't even know they're born - and the car mechanic programmes just annoy him. He knows more than those guys.

Jimmy's car. He changes direction, heading for the front door. His brother's been having problems with the Volvo. From the description it doesn't sound serious but Jimmy being Jimmy is getting the garage to collect it. It's sitting in the parking lot.

He's good with cars: it's one of the few things he and his father used to agree on. Hunting through the jackets hanging by the door he finds the keys. If he starts now it'll be fixed by tonight.

For some reason it doesn't surprise him that there's a set of basic tools in the trunk. His brother probably doesn't have any idea how to use them but he's bought them anyway. They're good tools too, he decides, weighing them up. Much better than he's used to.

Grunting he thrusts that thought away. He's not that person now. Popping the hood he begins to methodically check everything. The feeling of unease lingers though and his mind keeps traveling back.

It was after he'd been on the streets for a few years that he'd run into Stevie Crowther and his friends. Everyone knew to keep out of Stevie's way. Luck, as usual, hadn't been on his side. Wrong place, wrong time and he'd seen something he shouldn't have. He'd promised Stevie – begged him – that he wouldn't tell anyone what he'd seen. It hadn't been enough.

They'd followed him everywhere after that; getting him to do things he didn't want to do. Refusal resulted in a beating. Sometimes they'd just beat him up anyway. Once they'd discovered his skill with cars things had got worse; Stevie needed a reliable supply of getaway vehicles. It was how he made most of his money.

The fear comes rushing back and he shivers. Stevie never did any of the beatings himself. He had two friends and they were good at it. He shakes his head but he can still clearly see their faces; his memories are bubbling to the surface, exploding in vivid glory. Blood's dribbling down his chin. It's in his mouth too, making him gag but they're dragging him back upright and he's got no time to breathe. Struggling puts all his weight on his shoulder joints and he screams, lashing out with his feet, desperate to get away.

"David!"

Another hand grabs his shoulder and he pulls away, swinging with his fists. There's a satisfying thump as his fist hits soft flesh.

David! Stop!"

The voice is closer, screaming in his ear. Not Stevie he registers vaguely. Not Stevie's friends.

It's Jimmy.

Jimmy's screaming in his ear.

* * *

He's on his fourth shot of whiskey by the time his brother re-appears from the bathroom. Jimmy's face is swollen on one side, his cheekbone standing out in angry red relief; there's no doubt it's going to bruise spectacularly. Silently he pours himself another drink.

Clattering noises come from the kitchen. Eventually footsteps approach. He's sitting on the floor next to the couch and he tries not to flinch as his brother slumps down beside him.

"Take it. For your hand."

Jimmy's offering him a towel and it feels like it's full of ice. Confused, he looks down; the knuckles on his right hand are split, lightly speckled with blood. Bile rises in his throat but he does as he's told. Jimmy's doing the same, resting a towel on his cheek.

The silence is claustrophobic. He swallows hard. He has to say something. "I was fixing your car."

"I know." The answer is almost a whisper and he has to listen hard to hear. "Tell me what happened."

It's a demand not a request. Saying the words out aloud isn't easy. He keeps stuttering, starting again but eventually he gets to the end. When he looks over at his brother his eyes are closed, his lips pursed together in a thin white line. Reaching for the whiskey bottle he pours himself another drink.

"You should have called. We could have helped you."

"I couldn't." He takes another swig of his drink.

"Why not?"

Of course he doesn't understand. He's the wonder boy, the son who can do no wrong. "And do what? Come back to this?"

"This?" Jimmy spits the word back at him like a steel barb.

He swallows the remaining whiskey in one go. It warms him inside, giving him the courage he needs. "I've always been the bad boy, the one who's always wrong. Mom and Dad were always on my case –"

"You were doing drugs." His brother is sitting upright now, his hand clenched around the forgotten towel. "And you were drinking." He makes a grab for the bottle, as if making his point.

He grabs it back, tucking it behind him. "I smoked weed a few times. I wasn't doing anything."

"Yeah, right. Nothing is ever your fault."

"Like you'd understand –"

"I've been trying!" He can't ever remember hearing his brother shout. But he's shouting now, his chest heaving as he drags in air. "How can I help if I don't understand!"

Suddenly the room falls silent and they're staring at each other. He can feel the whiskey working its way through his system; he's seconds away from saying something he'll regret. Pushing himself to his feet he heads for his room. He closes the door behind him and stretches out on the bed. For a while the only thing he can hear is the sound of his heart thumping. Then he hears footsteps and the front door slamming shut.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hide and seek – part three**

The piano was the first thing he'd bought when he qualified as a doctor. It's larger than the one he had as a child and the pitch is better. Every time he's moved apartments the piano's moved with him. Like an old friend it requires little maintenance and its presence relaxes him.

They're spending quality time together when there's an abrupt knock on the front door. He recognizes the knock and he's about to yell something facetious when the door swings open. Wilson pushes his way through, his hands full of beer, and heads straight for the kitchen.

Surprised, he frowns but carries on playing, only half his attention on the music. Wilson turning up unannounced isn't unusual but recently it's been rare. Even their Friday nights have been intermittent since David moved into his brother's apartment. He's intrigued; Wilson usually has a reason for being here.

When Wilson reappears with two opened bottles, the reason becomes clear. Letting out a low-whistle he studies his friend's face. "Revenge of the killer door?" It's not difficult to guess who did it so asking is a waste of time.

Wilson scowls then slumps on the couch. Apparently the conversation is over. For a second he wavers between the piano and couch. But the bruise on Wilson's face is glowing like a beacon so he goes into the kitchen for some ice instead.

"Take it." Probably a fist he decides as Wilson tilts his head up to look at him. Only a glancing blow but it's got to hurt.

"Don't need it."

Doctors. They always make the worse patients. He drops the bag of ice in the other man's lap and takes the opportunity to grab a seat when Wilson yelps and jumps to his feet. There's a lot of glaring and muttering but eventually Wilson sits down again.

He lets Wilson surf through the channels. He's not really concentrating on the TV; his attention is fixed on the man sitting beside him, with his head propped on his hand and the ice pack pressed against his face. It'll probably take a few more beers before Wilson starts talking – his guess is about three. Leaning back he tries to relax, silently accepting beers every time Wilson makes another trip to the kitchen.

Half way through the third beer Wilson stops drinking and morosely stares at the bottle instead, worrying at the label with a fingernail. Sipping at his own beer he forces himself to be patient. It's coming, he can feel it. Any moment now Wilson will break.

Despite the anticipation the raw pain in his friend's voice still catches him unawares.

"I thought… I figured having him safe would be enough. I figured nothing else would matter…" Slowly he rubs the back of his neck. "He needs help but he won't let me help him. I want… I don't know what to do."

He thought he'd seen most of Wilson's moods. The night Julie walked out on him they'd sat drinking like this and he'd listened to his friend disintegrating as reality gradually set in. But this is different. Wilson sounds lost, desolate.

Leaning over he gently retrieves the remote from his friend. Switching the TV off he limps back over to the piano and settles down to play.

* * *

"David! We've got a customer!"

The baritone voice of his new boss, Mr Baker, carries all the way to the back of the stock room. Stepping over boxes and cans he answers the summons. Going from darkness into light makes him squint and he collides with the large shape that's standing in the doorway.

"Sorry, Mr Baker."

"Didn't you hear me?"

Not much chance of that, he feels like saying. He nods instead and goes to serve the customers. They're hardly worth the effort; milk, candy and a packet of laundry detergent. Why anyone would want laundry detergent at 2am is beyond him. Shrugging, he turns his attention to tidying the stock.

Over the top of the shelves he can see Mr Baker watching him. He'll stand there for hours, never saying a thing. The old man had been quick to hire him when he'd enquired about the advert in the window. Jimmy had been the one to tell him about the advert; he's been around too long to believe that's a coincidence.

It works though, this job that he's got. His brother comes home around seven each evening. At nine he starts the night shift at this local store. In the morning he gets home at six and Jimmy goes out at eight. For the few hours they're together they get on okay.

He can't shake the feeling of guilt, even though the bruises have faded. Jimmy's never told him where he stayed that night; following Wilson family tradition they've never discussed it again. Everything's fine - apart from the fact the whiskey bottle's been hidden and they both look like they could do with some sleep.

With a tired sigh he dismisses that thought. The job's mind-numbingly boring and that suits him right now. The hours pass. He stacks shelves and tidies the stock room. It's as he's coming out he notices two men loitering at the front of the store.

His heart sinks as he approaches the counter. They're not Mr Baker's 'type of customers', as his boss has been keen to point out on numerous occasions. Scruffy and dirty; it's not so long ago that he looked like that.

"David?" One of the men is peering up at him, then a toothy smile lights up his face. "It is you."

He stares back, ashamed to discover how quickly he's forgotten this man's name. "Marty?"

"Yeah. Almost didn't recognize you." Marty scratches his head then frowns, checking the store out. "What you doing here?"

"I work here."

"Really?" The other man suddenly becomes animated, his eyes lighting up with interest.

"Just stocking shelves and stuff…" He has a bad feeling about this.

Marty shuffles up to him, grabbing his elbow to pull him down to his level. "We're just after a couple of cans of soda…"

"And maybe some food."

Shooting a panicked glance over his shoulder he realizes he's probably only got seconds until Mr Baker comes to investigate. "Sorry guys, you know I would if –"

"Yeah right." Marty's friend grabs two cans and some cookies and stuffs them inside his coat. "What you gonna do, David? Call the cops?"

"Give them back." But Marty's doing the same now, stuffing packets inside his coat and in slow motion they're heading for the door. Part of him wants to tell them to run; it's what he would have done two months ago. He doesn't feel any loyalty towards Mr Baker. Jimmy's going to be furious though.

"What's going on?"

The familiar baritone sends a shiver down his spine. Mr Baker's appeared from behind the shelves, blocking the exit. There's no way out and from the looks on their faces, Marty and his friend know that too.

"David, call the police."

"No." The voice doesn't sound like his but it must be because everybody else is staring at him. "It's just a couple of cans."

The baritone has turned into a growl. "It's stealing."

That tone flicks on something inside his head. He can feel his hands shaking. "I'll pay for them, okay?"

"David –"

In a split second everything goes wrong. Marty's friend bolts for the exit. In the back of his mind he can hear Mr Baker yelling at him to call the police but suddenly there're fists flying and his brain goes haywire.

* * *

"Have you seen Wilson?"

"And a good morning to you too, Dr Cuddy."

His feet are resting on his desk and there's a glint in his eye; two major warning signs that House is in good form this morning. She takes the hint and raises her hands. "I haven't got time for this. Have you seen him or not?" As he leans over to look under his desk she lets out an irritated sigh. "House…"

He gives her his best penitent schoolboy impression. "No."

"Damn. The Board meeting was scheduled to start ten minutes ago and we're supposed to be discussing funding –"

"You're sure he knows about it?"

"This is Wilson we're talking about." Frustration is getting the better of her.

"And he hasn't called?"

"No." Frustration turns to concern as House frowns and slowly lowers his feet. He fumbles in his pocket for his cell, before impatiently stabbing at the buttons. "You think there's a problem?"

"This is Wilson we're talking about." Eyebrows arched, his voice is dripping with sarcasm. "Does he ever miss Board meetings?"

"No, but… " She falters, struggling to put her concerns into words. "He's been distracted lately, ever since David came back. And there was the bruise…" Which he'd never explained, apart from muttering something about killer doors as he'd hurried past her in the corridor. "It's probably nothing," she finishes, not sure quite who she's trying to convince. Obviously not House, who has hit speed dial and begins pacing as he waits for Wilson to pick up.

"Answer service," he snaps, then dials again. "I'll try him at home."

"I've done that. He's not there."

House drops the cell on his desk and starts pacing again. "What about his parents?"

"Why would he –"

"I don't know," he shoots back, lurching towards his desk. "But he's not here, is he."

His tone's biting but she skips the opportunity for an equally curt reply. Logically she knows there must be a perfectly good reason for Wilson not answering his calls. But she's rarely seen House this worried before and he's doing nothing to ease her own concerns.

As House retrieves his cell and starts flicking through his address book, she takes over the pacing. Somewhere in the staff records she's probably got Julie's number. The two of them aren't talking though, as far as she's aware. Wilson's life revolves around the hospital; the list of people who might be able to help is small. And two of them, she realizes, are already in this office.

She's standing at the end of the office, blindly staring through the glass when Wilson stalks past outside, heading in the direction of his office. It takes her brain a second to catch up before she's leaning forward, knocking on the glass. She wonders if she imagined him when he reappears, his face like thunder as he walks into House's office.

"Nice of you to join us." House is still in full sarcastic mode, she notes. He really must have been worried.

"Sorry." Sounding anything but, Wilson is stripping off his overcoat and dumping it and his briefcase in the guest chair. He's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt underneath. Perhaps sensing her frown he gestures vaguely in the direction of his office. "I've got clothes."

They were frantically looking for him a moment ago her wound-up nerves remind her. And from the way House is hunched over his cane she's not the only one expecting an explanation. "You want to tell us wher –"

She trails off as David appears in the doorway. A large piece of the puzzle falls into place. His right eye is swollen nearly shut and his lip is split on one side. She glances over at Wilson but he's apparently more interested in the contents of his briefcase. David shuffles into the office, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"Wilson?" It's the voice she reserves for errant staff. Years of practice have honed it to a lethal weapon.

Grudgingly he meets her gaze. "We've been at the police station."

She raises her eyebrows in question but it's David who replies. "My fault."

Neither brother is looking at the other; the atmosphere between them is thick enough to cut with a knife. A quick glance at her watch reminds her she hasn't got time to worry about it. "We've got a meeting, remember?"

Wilson nods, pulling files out of his briefcase. David is still loitering and she looks from one to other, not sure what happens next.

"I'll get the bus home."

"No!" She and House flinch at the vehemence of Wilson's voice. His brother is staring at his feet. "I'll be finished here in an hour. I'll drive you home then."

David snorts with laughter but it's not a happy sound. "Worried about your bail money?"

"Bail money?" She can't help herself.

"It was just two cans of soda," David mumbles.

"You assaulted the store owner!" Wilson's eyes are flashing with anger.

"He started it –"

"You shouldn't have –"

"Okaaay, as much as I'm enjoying this touching family get together we've all got places to be." House is limping around his desk, planting himself between the two men who are squaring off like fighters in a ring. "You," he clicks his fingers impatiently in Wilson's direction, "car keys. Rocky," he pokes David in the shoulder with his cane, "you're with me."

* * *

The diner is two blocks from the hospital. The waitress hesitates when she sees the state of David's face but he plays the cripple card and she gives in gracelessly, finding them a table at the back where the other customers can't see them.

"So, does the other guy look as bad you?" he asks once the waitress has taken their order.

David doesn't answer him at first, more interested in the ketchup bottle on the table. "Might have a concussion," he offers eventually, his head down.

"Ouch."

"I didn't mean it."

"Like you didn't mean to hit Jimmy?" He feels a stab of satisfaction at David's horrified reaction.

"That was an accident. I didn't know it was him." His fingers tap the side of his head. "Things happen…"

He considers that for a moment, carefully putting the pieces together. "There are people who could help you. Wilson could –"

"No."

Five minutes into the conversation and he's already starting to understand why his friend is so frustrated. He's always thought of himself a master manipulator of people, twisting them around his finger with the power of his words. David's also a master manipulator but his weapon is silence.

Challenges are his specialty though and after the food arrives he opens with salvo number two. "Why did you leave?"

David almost chokes on the French fry that he's carefully feeding through the uninjured side of his mouth. "Jimmy's right. You know just where to prod people."

He accepts the compliment with a shrug. "One of the advantages of not being family. I don't care if you run back to your homeless buddies." He's got fries on his own plate but out of habit he steals one from the other man. "So, spill."

David chews slowly then clears his throat. "I can't remember anymore. I really can't," he insists, when his eyebrows arch in surprise. "It was an argument. There were lots of arguments."

"So you packed your bags and ran off to join the circus."

"Maybe I should have done. At least then I would have had a plan." Snorting, David rubs his face tiredly. "I had a few bucks saved. I thought it would be easy." He snorts again, shaking his head. "There's a reason my brother calls me a selfish jerk."

"He's got a point. Not calling your family for ten years is pretty selfish."

"Thanks." David grimaces then winces, gingerly touching his split lip.

"So now you're back." It's time for salvo number three. "Any particular reason for that?"

"You're a bastard." Again he accepts the compliment with a shrug. David signals his surrender with a sigh and closes his eyes. "It's a cliché; I thought I was dying. Marco asked me about Jimmy –"

"And you knew he'd come running."

Again he feels a stab of satisfaction at the look of guilt on the other man's face. "That's my brother. He just keeps on coming –"

"No matter how many times you knock him down."

David covers his face with his hands. "Yeah."

Leaning back he considers the man sitting opposite him. His initial urge to verbally kick him into the middle of next week is rapidly fading. This is Wilson's brother. And it's obvious he's teetering on the edge. "There are people who could help you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he'd want to help."

He doesn't need to ask whom he's referring to. With a sigh he acknowledges the truth. "He doesn't know how not to."

"I need to do this on my own." David's holding his gaze now and he nods, empathy for the man's situation making him agree.

"Okay, so you find someone outside Princeton."

David shakes his head. "Jimmy would know them all –"

"I mean a long way from Princeton."

He studies the other man's face as the words sink in. Exhaustion has robbed him of usual wariness. Every emotion is obvious in his face. It must be a Wilson family trait, he decides, this inability to lie with their eyes.

Eventually David focuses on him again, regret written across his face. "It would mean leaving."

He has to ask the question. "Is that a problem?"

"Yes. No." David shrugs, rubs his eyes, and winces as he touches a sore spot. "I can't stay here. But I can't tell them I'm leaving. Not again."

'I figured having him safe would be enough.' Wilson's words run through his mind, giving him the inspiration he needs. "I think they'll accept it. But it has to be for the right reasons."

Confused, David shakes his head. "I don't see…"

"Let me ask around." Waving the waitress over he asks for the check. Wilson won't be happy when he finds out what they're planning. But another glance across the table reminds him that it's not just David who's going to go mad if this situation carries on. "I want you to promise me something."

"What?" David's looks like a drowning man who's just been offered a life preserver.

"Make sure he understands it's not his fault."

* * *

The bombshell drops on a Friday night. He'd been invited over for beer and pizza as usual – or at least that's what he thought.

"California?" Spluttering around a mouthful of beer he marches from the kitchen to confront House who is stretched out on the couch. "Why would he go to California?"

"Marco came up with the idea, he asked around at the shelter." Alarm bells start ringing; House sounds casually offhand. "There's a mission in San Francisco, they need someone to help out. He'd heard David was looking for somewhere to –"

"How did he hear?" Reluctantly House meets his eyes; they're full of regret. Understanding hits with the force of a sledgehammer. "No. He's not leaving."

House pushes himself to his feet and begins pacing. His cane is pounding the floor. "Your brother needs help."

"Which I can get for him." Hands on hips, he's determined to make his point.

"Not this time."

"I can –"

"No." House has stopped. His attention's on a knot in the wooden floor. "You can't fix everyone. You need to learn when to stop."

His stomach roils; there's an element of truth in House's statement. But fear is getting the better of him. David's leaving again, obscuring everything else. "I'll talk to him. Marco must know someone in New Jersey who can help."

"His flight's booked for tomorrow."

House has got his head down; it's difficult to hear what he said. "Tomorrow?"

"He didn't want to make it any worse."

"Worse?" He lets out a bitter laugh, his fear breaking through. "How can it be any worse?" In his minds eye he's replaying what happened the last time his brother left; the fallout has contaminated his family for years.

They go round and round in circles, House delivering his argument calmly and logically. It only serves to feed his fear, stoking it to full-blown anger. When he eventually finds himself out on House's doorstep, reaction making him shiver despite the mild temperature outside, he realizes there's only one place he can go.

The couch in his office wasn't designed as a bed but sleep eludes him anyway. Eventually he passes out in the early hours of the morning. The smell of fresh coffee wakes him up.

His brain's sluggish and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. Tension has made his muscles stiff and with a groan he pulls himself upright. Blinking he focuses on his brother who is hovering nervously beside him, a rucksack by his feet.

"House got me in," David offers in explanation. "Peace offering." A mug of coffee is waved under his nose.

With a resigned sigh he takes it and indicates the empty space next to him. The cushions sink as his brother joins him.

"I should have told you myself."

Rousing himself he takes a sip of the coffee. "No." House is an expert at making people see the truth: he's brutal but effective. "We'd have argued. It wouldn't have solved anything."

"I've already called Mom and Dad." There's a note of remorse in his brother's voice; it grabs his attention. "Mom cried. I think Dad sounded kind of relieved."

He nods. Their reactions mirror his own. Realization makes him feel guilty. "You could stay…"

His brother snorts then nudges him with his knee. "Stop it. You got me back on my feet." There's another nudge, harder this time and he takes the hint, meeting David's gaze. "It's not your fault. You can't fix someone if they don't want to be fixed."

He dips his head in acknowledgment then turns his attention back to his coffee. David's right, he knows that. And so is House. But he still wishes he could turn the clock back ten years. He's always been sure there's something he did wrong.

Rubbing his face tiredly, he acknowledges the truth. "You'll call this time, won't you? It'll kill Mom if…"

David hands him a piece of paper. Written neatly on it are telephone numbers and an address. It's more than they had last time and he folds it carefully then tucks it in his wallet.

His heart's thudding as David flashes him an anxious grin then gets to his feet. It's inevitable what's coming next. He drags it out anyway, misery bowing his shoulders as he pushes himself out of the seat. Suddenly he's enveloped in a hug.

"Now you'll know where to find me."

It lasts only seconds and then he's gone but he can still feel the imprint of his brother's hands gripping his shoulders. David studies him for a moment then grabs his rucksack, swinging it on his back.

"I'd better go. Got a flight to catch."

"Okay." The word is like sawdust in his mouth. As they both head for the door his fixing gene makes a last-ditch attempt to assert itself. "Do you need money? I can get –"

David waves him to silence, a small smile on his face. "It's covered. House," he explains at his frown of confusion. "He figured he owed you the money anyway. He says you still owe him for the coffee though."

Forcing himself not to follow his brother out into the corridor, he listens as his footsteps fade away. There's work he could be doing despite it being Saturday morning but he closes the door instead, locking himself inside his office. The pain is almost as the bad the second time, he notes vaguely, stretching out on the couch. It's taking every little bit of faith he has in his brother to convince himself that he'll stick to his promise and call.

There's a scratching noise at the door a while later. He's left the key in the lock on purpose and he turns his back to the door, an unsubtle hint to House who he knows is standing outside. It goes quiet for a while before the balcony door slides open. He rolls over, not bothering to hide an annoyed sigh.

"Don't. Just don't..." He understands everyone's reasoning but talking about it is beyond him right now.

"Wasn't going to." House sounds very subdued.

Closing his eyes, he rubs his face tiredly. When he opens them again House is standing beside him, offering a piece of paper in his hand.

"It's the direct line number for the Director of the mission," his friend supplies when he frowns. "Marco thought you might want it. In case of...emergencies."

House doesn't elaborate on what kind of emergencies. He doesn't need to. He's offering him a lifeline to David and for a second he's tempted to take it. His fingers settle on the piece of paper but then he jerks them back, shaking his head. "I'll be calling every other day."

House studies him for a moment then shrugs. The piece of paper disappears into his pocket, he notices, not straight into the trash. "You want to get breakfast?"

No, is his immediate answer. He wants to hide in here forever. That's not practical though so he gets to his feet. "Let me guess - I'm paying?"

"You got coffee, didn't you?"

House has already unlocked the door and is waiting for him on the threshold. Grabbing his jacket he follows. David's safe, he reminds himself, taking a swipe at the cloud of depression that's threatening to overwhelm him. It's what he's always wanted. He just has to convince himself it's enough.


End file.
